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FOR. YOU AND ME 


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- 7 - 

FOR 

YOU AND ME 


By AMBROSE ELWEEL 
Author of "At the Sign of the 
R,ed Swan/' "Down River/' etc. 



Boston 

Small, Maynard &0 Company 
















0 


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Copyright, 1^2.^, 
by Small, 'RJ.aynard 80 Co. 
Incorporated 


e- 


feb -8 vm 

DC1A777027 (V 


CONTENTS 

L Mother. *j 

1 L To an Old Church. 11 

11 L To an Old Bam. i s' 

IV. To a. Tittle' Eed Scboolbouse' 1 ^ 

V. To an Old Oafe. 2.3 

VI. To an Old Fireplace'.2.7 


M 





















MOTHER. 











































MOTHEE 

'HEN love is gone, when 
stars at night lose lustre, 
when the 7 warm sun of 
spring fails to cheer 7 the 
heart, when the kiss is cold 
and friends have gone forever, when outh 
has fled to follow nimbler feet, and old age 
points the way to life's darkening pathway, 
when strangers rushing by at breathless pace 
forget the courtesies they owe the world and 
push aside those frailer than the rest, when 
faith is waning and hope 7 forlorn has seized 
thy heart, and charity shall pass the needy 
by, there wells a sweet and tender love within 
thy bosom, to tell thee that-'the world is 
good! A voice shall softly whisper within 
thy soul, " Mother/' 


[?] 








TO AN OLD CHURCH 















TO AN OLD CHURCH 

OMEWHERE in yowxr^ 

memory’ is picture of a^ 
church nestled in some vil¬ 
lage. "From tbe bill its tiny 
spire rises above old elms, a^ 
picture serene, meaning itself in some manner 
into tbe story of^y our life. 

For uncounted ^years tbe tones of tbe bell 
bave given sounds of cheer 7 or' sadness. It 
bas marked tbe passing to a better world or 
summoned men's souls to better deeds. Be¬ 
neath, tbe old pews tell tbe story of friends 
and families come and gone. Silent^ walls 
echo tbeir voices. Here' inspirations and 
ideals took root, and hearts poured forth 
their reverence and devotion. 'Every phase 
of buman existence blends in silence: death, 
marriage, mirth, sorrow, laughter, labor, 
and love, like a^ never-ending river. 

It makes no difference wbo^you are or 
where ^you may be, tbe picture of some old 


[i 3 ] 






church comes back with sweeping road before 
it, village, tbe shady elms or maples, and 
neighbors' bouses — all life landmarks. 

You remember those friends who came 
to tbe tolling of tbe bell, and those who bear 
tbe tolling no more. You remember^ tbe 
shade and coolness of tbe old doorway where 
they passed to and fro. You cbertsb tbe 
innumerable ties, bringing reflections which 
penetrate tbe world of things of^your inner¬ 
most soul. Tbe' bells of any cburcb bring 
back the picture, but tbe old meeting-house 
of y ears gone by is dearer than all the rest. 
Perhaps it stands on an island in the' sea 
near 7 fertile fields or barren shores; in ver¬ 
dant bills or valley. Perhaps tbe tiny spire 
rises still where borne once was. It may be 
far away beside some sweet"' river, and near 
piney woods and shaded roadways where 
^you played, awaiting^your return to breathe 
again tbe balmy air and listen to tbe toll¬ 
ing of tbe bell when apple' blossoms bloom 
or summer days are fairest. 








TO AN OLD BAR.N 

















TO AN OLD BARN 

Oj^ou remember spreading 
rafters and moms of bay, 
and swallows darting in and 
out great open doors? Do 
^you remember' tbe sun 
shower, pattering ram on tbe old shingled 
roof when we played in tbe bay and, be¬ 
neath, tbe cows shackled in tbeir stanchions? 
Days of tbe old bam. 

Who has not bad tbeir happiest hours 
there ? We jumped and played and watched 
tbe pitching from tbe heavy loads. Do^you 
remember tbe cold winter mornings, tbe 
sifting snow, and bay rack left in idleness? 
Where are they now, friends of childhood 
who played there then? Is tbeir bouse in 
tbe bay destroyed? 

The rafters still remain, tbe swallows 
come in spring and go in fall. Dear is tbe 
place which associates itself with happiest 
days. Here and there remains ^ bam. 


C 1 7^ 







We greet it with zu kindly nod for it may 
be giving now tbe happiness it gave then, 
so long ago. 

How big it seemed! How wonderful 
its nooks and comers! Wbo did not love 
tbe bay and ox team? Wbo envies not 
tbe child wbo plays there? 

It may be' old and weatber-beaten; its 
shingles are decayed, its rafters fallen, and 
tbe haymakers long since leftr' the empty 
mows, If^you return to watch tbe swallows 
flying in and out, it brings a touch of cbild- 
bood and gives a pang of reverence, Tbe 
brook runs on and on to tbe mill pond where 
we' used to swim. The road winds itself 
along the old stone wall. Again^you and 1 
hear laughter. Bless tbe days of the'old 
bam and give thanks for^ days of^youtb. 
Twiltgbr' gatbers, the Harvest Moon— 
is setl 


[is] 









































TO A LITTLE EED SCHOOLHOUSE 

T tbe fork of tbe road stands 
tbe'' little red scboolbouse 
with its flagpole a t^ tbe 
gable, tbe door canned with 
initials of my old friends. 
1 see them notv as they come to school, tbe 
kindly teacher^ standing in tbe doorway to 
welcome, as tve patter in, barefooted, batless, 
but carefree. 

Tbe sun sbines now as itr' used to then, 
tbe waving grasses and goldenrod line tbe 
road as they did so many ^y ears ago, but 1 
see no familiar cbildisb faces to welcome me 
now. Time bas scattered them like leaves of 
autumn. Behind tbe"' desks new faces have 
replaced those 1 knew. Across tbe road is 
tbe cemetery. 1 wander over. Yes, tbe sun 
is shining on tbe names 1 read. They rest 
there within bearing of the' laughter. Be¬ 
yond tbe fields 1 see tbe waters of tbe blue 
bay and sandy shores where we once played. 

[«] 








The same west''wind blows white-winged 
ships to sea. Some sailed away on those ships 
never to return, others sleep beside me. 

Treasured are those friends of by-gone 
days scattered north, south, east, and west; 
the little red schoolhouse has sent them forth 
to teach its teachings. 

"Let no hand molest^ the little building. 
May it stand forever at the fork of the road 
to lead the way for children's children, and 
the children of my childhood. 


[2.2.] 






TO AN OLD OAK 

















TO AN OLD OAK 

my memory is an old oak 
V tree, For more than a century 
its great arms outspread bare 
given tbe weary traveler ay 
place of shade'' and rest. It 
stands an ancient landmark. Not far is 3u 
bomestead ivitb old-fasbioned chimneys, near 
by 3u pasture where'' cattle gra 2 :e. Genera¬ 
tions of men have passed beneath. Birds of 
tbe air bave built their 7 nests in confidence 
in its branches. Little children bave played 
under its sheltering limbs. It stands like \s 
monument of strength and truth weathering 
the lightning and storm, tbe beat and cold. 
It has no peer 7 in tbe surrounding country, 
and is venerated by men. Like a^ great 
Goliath, in winter 7 its form is silbouetted 
against tbe glories of the western sky, and 
in stimmer bathed in early morning mists. 
No otber 7 tree reflects such strength, char¬ 
acter, simplicity, and love. 


Os-] 










If love be steadfast, the oak is supreme. 
In simplicity it is like an aged fattier wait¬ 
ing to greetr" tbe home-comer, It grows 
stronger witb tbe y ears, Itr' bows its bead 
in silence and modesty when tbe passerby 
remarks its beauty, and listens to tbe' woes 
of man so frail beneath its strength, Like 
great watchman of tbe night it guards tbe 
homestead, waiting the'break of eastern 
dawn. Is there in^your'mind some great 
oak beneath wbose branches once yon played, 
to which yon would return to renew tbe 
associations obyoutb ? Wouklyou like again 
to lie beneatb its shade'and watch tbe sum¬ 
mer clouds above drift by ? 

Ob tree of trees! greater than all tbe rest, 
y’our'branches spreading toward tbe'blue 
heavens, ^y our roots embedded in tbe bowels 
of God's earth, monument to tbe treasured 
past! 


[*<] 









TO AN 01_D HR_EPLA.CE 























TO AN OLD REPLACE 

T you have ever sat before an 
old open fireplace and its 
hospitable warmth to watch 
tbe flames dance merrily on 
a^ cold winter's night, ^you 
have enjoyed tbe simplest-' of human de¬ 
lights. Then, if ever, ^you will sink into 
calm and rest. 

If it be of ancient build in some com¬ 
fortable old home, whether^ or not ^your 
ancestors gathered before its cheering blaze, 
^you can but feel impressed ivitb its power 
to bring a^ sense of home and breath of 
cheer. The traveler from 3u far^ country, 
tbe returned sea captain, the busy man 
from the city, the invalid, those borne down 
by care and sadness, the child in its calmer 
moments, tbe lover, the old, the ^young, all 
feel the'' mesmeric influence of the burn¬ 
ing logs, soft rising smoke, glow of the 
dying embers, ticking of the old clock, and 


!>?] 







atmosphere of home surrounding. All bring 
back tender memories. 

No place on earth is so apt to touch the 
heartstrings or stimulate the fancy to bring 
back pictures of days gone by. Countless 
persons gathered here, to come and go to 
unknown places. "Episodes of human exist¬ 
ence have here been enacted. Friends have 
left its warmth to return no more. If the 
tales here told could be retold, life's story 
would be written down. Here is the gather¬ 
ing point of families come and gone. The 
many hands which lifted logs are long since 
still. The dreams dreamt by dreamers 
gating at the glow long since bane passed 
into oblivion. The wind moans in the chim¬ 
ney to tell each listener a different story. 
To old age it sings one song, to jyouth 
another, to childhood lullabies of goblins and 
fairy things dancing with the ever-changing 
flames. 

In autumn, when woodlands lose^ their 
radiance and the heart''is saddened by ap- 


0 °] 






proacb of shorter days and more severe, tbe 
crackling birch or coal-red-oak reflect^ tbe 
warmth of summer or tbe beauties of tbe fall. 
In winter's sleet, when man prepares for 
wintry days and drear, it waits to give its 
cbeer. Years command go, seasons pass, 
men are made and unmade, while logs bum 
brigbtly in some fireplace^you have known. 


[si ] 










Of this book, the third work in Amer¬ 
ica composed in Humanistic type, an 
edition of one thousand and twenty- 
five copies has been printed for Small, 
Maynard and Company, Incorpo¬ 
rated, by The University Press, of 
Cambridge, Massachusetts, J anuary, 
1 y 2 .^, of which one thousand are for 
sale. 


























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































